


Bloodloss

by Control_Room, Random_ag



Series: Tortured Tales [11]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Agony, Blood, Blood Loss, Body Horror, Disturbing Themes, Nausea, Poetry, Torture, dissection of a living being, prose, torture written through poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27678742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room/pseuds/Control_Room, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: A mockingbird is chained to its perch.
Series: Tortured Tales [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023520
Kudos: 1





	Bloodloss

And one, and two, and three - and the mockingbird cries a little as its small teeth clench in defiance, those starry tears falling like rain, rain rain.

And four, and five, and six - and the mockingbird begins to caw, gasping and twitching, unable to resist the touch within, and it cries in pain, pain, pain. 

And seven, and eight, and nine - and the mockingbird sings louder, thin legs trying to kick themselves free, but the wings are clipped, so it’s in vain, vain, vain.

And ten, and eleven, and twelve - and the mockingbird starts to beg, it starts to blither and blabber, songs twisting and warping, feeling the warmth of its body drain, drain, drain.

And thirteen, and fourteen, and fifteen - and the mockingbird cannot sing anymore, eye rolling back, mouth open, small, fragile chest fluttering, never enough air to its brain, brain, brain. 

And sixteen, and seventeen, and eighteen - and the mockingbird jerks awake, for no, it cannot sleep, not while the blood still roils, not while it is held aloft by chains, chains, chains.

And nineteen, and twenty, and twenty-one - and the mockingbird cannot think, it cannot breathe, it cannot speak as its thin little body is held in such horrendous strain, strain, strain.

And twenty-two, and twenty-three, and twenty-four - and the mockingbird is screaming again, not of its own accord, for its throat has been torn, sinew replaced with sheets of metal and arteries of pipework, and he is no longer found to entertain, entertain, entertain.

And twenty-five, and twenty-six, and twenty-seven - and the mockingbird is cut and opened, studied by an eyeless predator of pure and cold perfection, cruel to a fault, as it laughs and dissects and distains, distains, distains. 

And twenty-eight, and twenty-nine, and thirty - and the mockingbird gives a last cry before its heartbeat finally slows to rest, and no more blood pumps through implemented metal veins, and then on the ground in a bed of his own gore he was lain, lain, lain.

The machine quieted its torture for a second and stilled. Johan’s breathing was heavy, all movement gone aside from that agonized rise and fall of his far too exposed ribcage. The machine recounted the veins it had torn out and set pipes in their stead, disappointed at the current number, but excited to make it grow further. Still, the mockingbird needed some moments of pause, to breathe, else its mind would cloud too much and the gorgeously tormented songs would cease for too long.

The heart was held in place by a spoke driving through the muscle, fluttering around it desperately, unable to fly far away, no matter how much it desperately wanted to. 

The machine waited for him to wake up. It knew that he would not take long, being that it was fully in control of its own unmade creator.

That red eye opened, glancing right, left, down, up.

And he wept.

Awake at last!

And thirty-one, and thirty-two, and thirty-three - and the mockingbird continues in agony. 


End file.
